


Unseen, Unfettered

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dollification, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Objectification, Parent/Child Incest, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-10-13 17:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20586344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: Sans barely remembers how to be a person any more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [pretty, poised.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049417) by [sweetsinnerchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsinnerchild/pseuds/sweetsinnerchild). 

> This is a sequel to Sweetsinnerchild's [pretty, poised](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049417) written with their full, enthusiastic consent. 8D Thank you so much for creating the original piece, Sweets! Thank you also to the mysterious fandom benefactor who commissioned it from me. <3
> 
> Please make sure you read the warnings! This is a recovery fic, though it's coming from an extremely dark, unpleasant place.

The monotony of Sans’s existence has become such a comfortable horror, that when the routine is unexpectedly broken he discovers a new height of sickly anticipation. Papyrus is home, still in the kitchen, and there’s a stranger in the house. Sans can make out their low, soothing voice, probably trying to keep Papyrus calm. Gaster has told Sans with utter assurance that outsiders have been warned away. The Royal Scientist’s house is full of delicate, dangerous experiments that can’t possibly be disturbed. Papyrus knows to bar entrance, so either someone forced their way in or was convincing enough to override his brother’s natural obedience. Sans isn’t sure which would be worse: the threat of an intruder or the threat of their father’s punishments.

Once upon a time, Sans might have wished that someone, even a potential burglar, might find him and free him, but the capacity hope has been burned out of him. All Sans feels is a grey, unending misery occasionally interspersed with terror or despair. He listens to the voice because he has no choice, but there’s no space in his skull for desperate planning or dreams of escape. He stares listlessly at the ceiling, feeling wet saliva cooling slowly on his cunt.

He’s in Papyrus’s room, still splayed across the floor, his skirts bunched up around his waist to leave him bare to Papyrus’s earnest exploration. Daddy wants him to get better at the game, Gaster had said, sweetly, revoltingly. Practice on Sans, then show Daddy what you’ve learned. Papyrus, ever obedient, has been doing exactly that. He’s spent the last few afternoons finding new ways to wind Sans up, to see how fast his magic can be forced to form, to elicit that peak that makes Sans’s body give small, uncontrollable tremors. The fact that he left Sans still aroused but wholly unable to do anything about it is just another discomfort in the ongoing torture that is his empty existance.

Suddenly, a piercing cry cuts through the house. Sans would have startled, had he any capacity for movement, and despite himself his soul gives a wretched twist at the sound of his brother’s desperate wail. For a moment, he fears his father has come home and discovered the intruder, but as he listens intently, Gaster’s voice is absent but the stranger’s is still audible, speaking faster, more fervently. There’s a gentle, comforting undertone, but it does little to quell the awful sounds of Papyrus’s sobs ringing down the hall.

It goes on for some time, long enough that Sans’s magic finally cools and dispels, and the spelled light through the curtained windows goes dim with the onset of the Uderground’s false night. It’s late when Papyrus finally stumbles into the bedroom, swiftly closing the door behind him. He staggers to Sans’s side and falls to his knees, leaning over his brother, face twisted with utter devastation.   


He’s growing so fast, he might be taller than Sans now, though it’s hard to tell when Sans hasn’t actually stood upright in years. He feels bigger (healthier, stronger) when he pulls Sans into his arms and squeezes too tightly, compressing Sans’s delicate ribs. Papyrus buries his face into Sans’s shoulder, muffling the sounds of his renewed sobbing. His tears quickly soak into the silk, leaving an uncomfortable wet patch that grows slimy and chill.

Silently, he wills his brother to explain, to tell him what has happened, but Papyrus is incoherent, holding onto Sans and weeping against him until by slow increments, exhaustion takes him. They lie together, curled on the floor, Papyrus twitching fitfully in his sleep while Sans lies awake, too alert and uneasy to rest.

It’s not until hours later that he realises that Gaster never came home from the Labs. 

* * *

Sans is still wide awake when the knocking comes, his paralysed sockets burning more than usual with the lack of rest. Papyrus stirs, waking groggily from his restless sleep. He pats Sans down, absently smearing the tear stains on his shoulder before reluctantly departing to answer the front door. Sans strains to catch the distant exchange of voices, but there’s no mistaking the sudden invasion of not just one but several unknown monsters making their way through the house. Gaster would have a fit, were he home, but despite how anxiously Sans has been anticipating it Gaster remains mysteriously absent.

...He should feel something about that. Relief, perhaps, but change has become an even more terrifying prospect than routine.

It’s a long and anxious wait until Papyrus returns, and when the door opens Sans catches a brief glimpse of the first person other than Gaster or his brother he’s seen in years. It’s only for a moment. They’re immensely tall, their horned head almost brushing the ceiling of the hallway, and they’re wearing robes of a deep purple shade that stirs a faint recollection in the back of his mind -- something from his brief years of schooling, but the thought hovers elusively out of reach and Sans no longer puts in the effort to chase such fancies.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” the person says, their voice soft and melodious. It’s a voice tempered to put a small, lost child at ease, though Sans thinks he can hear a note of uncertainty beneath it. “I can help you pack your belongings?”

“No thank you,” Papyrus mumbles, skirting around the stranger’s bulk to enter his room and swiftly shutting the door in their face. Sans can tell by now from his brother’s expression that it’s not something he wants to do, but that he feels he has to do. Gaster’s rules about not letting Sans be seen must have stuck. There’s a deeply etched worry on Papyrus’s face that makes him look far older than a child should. A pause of silence comes from outside, before the large monster moves away to join the odd bustle of activity happening elsewhere in the house.   


Papyrus returns to Sans’s side, clutching two bowls of oatmeal, the sight of which never fails to turn Sans’s stomach even as his soul clenches with desperate, unavoidable hunger. Papyrus looks at him solemnly, carefully levering Sans up into a seated position against the bed frame.   


“It’s time for breakfast, Sans,” Papyrus tells him, tentatively squeezing Sans’s hand in pitiful reassurance. It’s always a bleak reminder that Papyrus makes such gestures not because he thinks Sans is alive, but because he has no one else to express or receive comfort from. Friends are forbidden. Papyrus isn’t allowed to have anyone but Gaster and Sans, and Sans has no capacity to reciprocate.   


The feeding process has become mechanical. Papyrus carefully measures out a level teaspoon of white powder from the jar he now keeps close at hand to ensure he won’t ever forget again. He sprinkles it over one of the bowls, watching it fizz and bubble before absorbing seamlessly into the oats. Then it’s a matter of prying Sans’s frozen jaw open so Papyrus can guide the spoon between his parted teeth. Sans doesn’t have enough magic to form either tongue or throat -- there’s a miserable relief in that at least he’s spared that particular violation from his father -- but as soon as it’s in his mouth his body absorbs the magic in the food with ravenous haste. Even though he can’t taste it, there’s always a bitter burn that lingers inside his jaw for hours afterwards.

He tries to ignore what’s happening to his body in favour of listening, and through the walls he hears the first inklings of truth regarding their new situation in the scraps of several half-caught conversations. Gossip spreads like wild-fire from mouth to mouth, unstoppable and destructive.   


“-can’t take all the furniture, so let’s take it down to people who need-”

“-poor child, the Queen says he hasn’t stopped crying-”

“-what about the core? What are we going to do without a royal scientist-?”

“-orphanage? No, no, the King and Queen are going to take him in-”

“-his replacement is an engineer, so she should be-”

“-Did you hear? He was working late and-”

“-right into the core. It’s such a tragedy-”

It takes Sans some time to realize that the numb, shocky haze that’s settled over him isn’t just an after-affect of his medication. There’s a phrase that keeps repeating amidst the jumbled fragments of conversations, wholly surreal in its implication.

_ Fell into the core. _

Gaster -- his father, his jailor, his rapist, his torturer -- fell into the core. He didn’t come home...he isn’t coming home. At all. Ever.

Gaster is dead.

The emotion that comes after that realisation is too big for him to process all at once, but oddly it’s not relief. It’s not vengeful gratification or a renewal of hope. There’s not enough left of him to feel anything so positive, but the emotion rings in him nonetheless, like the toll of a bell resounding in an otherwise empty void.   


When Sans’s bowl is empty (though Papyrus’s is still mostly full) the younger skeleton sets them aside with solemn precision. His sockets are still limned with wet magic, and Sans can barely imagine how it must feel for his brother, who loved their father and never had any reason to question their perverse games. His grief is so simple that Sans almost wants to hate him, but silent pity is easier to reach as Papyrus begins moving around his room in a stilted, trance-like daze. He begins gathering together an odd assortment of belongings across Sans’s lap with no rhyme or reason that Sans can discern. His red scarf and the old baby blanket kept folded at the end of his bed for cold nights. The Adventures of Fluffy Bunny and his book on Puzzle Engineering. Two of the dresses Sans hates the most, brightly colored with absurd ruffles and itchy lace. It’s not until Papyrus empties out his toybox and drags the now unoccupied container over that he remembers the tall monster’s plaintive offer and realises the purpose of the pile. It’s all of his brother’s favourite things. His toys, his books...and Sans.

“It’s going to be okay, Sans,” Papyrus tells him, lining the bottom of the box with the blanket first. He scrubs at his sockets as a few tears fall free, leaving blotches on the soft wool. “T-the queen promised to take c-care of us.”

The toybox is a generous size for a child’s possessions, but it’s not large by any means. Papyrus has to fold Sans up into a compact ball to make him fit inside, femurs pressed tightly to his ribs until his kneecaps are digging in to the bottom of his jaw, his remaining arm folded and tucked into the empty space between his ribs and pelvis. Sans’s isn’t heavy or bulky, but it’s still a difficult, clumsy process that requires a distressing amount of shoving, squeezing and wrenching. More than once Papyrus jars the raw end of Sans’s right humerus where Gaster had severed the bone as punishment. It would bring tears to his eyes if the drug didn’t keep his magic dammed inside him, static and unmoving, useless as sewage in a clogged pipe.   


In the end, his small body is tightly packed into the equally small space, with the rest of Papyrus’s chosen belongings jammed in around him. Most of it is soft, clearly intended to cushion him and keep his bones from rattling, but the spine of one of the books is digging into his shoulder blade and Papyrus’s scarf is swaddled across his mouth and nose, smothering him.

“It’s only for a little while,” Papyrus says, though it seems more intended to console himself rather than Sans. He pets Sans’s skull as if savouring their last moments of contact. “I’ll take care of you, even though Daddy’s-”

He cuts himself off with a short, hiccuping sob, phalanges trembling against Sans’s cheek, before reluctantly pulling his hand away and sealing the lid. Claustrophobia sets in immediately, more oppressive than ever, because even though Sans has been a longtime prisoner in his immobile body, he’s never been truly confined like this. No need to resort to locks or walls when Sans’s paralysed limbs were more than enough to shackle him. The inside of the box is tight and dark and hot, pressing down on him like the hold of Gaster’s blue magic, and panicked incoherence bubbles up and consumes him for a time that feels like days though it’s probably only minutes.

(It feels like the morning after Gaster first dosed him, when he finally realised this wasn’t just a passing fancy and his father truly intended to keep him like this. He was blinded and deafened by the noiseless screaming inside his skull, his every instinct rejecting the reality he found himself in.)

His fear is vast, but it’s not inexhaustible. Eventually his weak body gives out, and he washed up inside his skull like the unfortunate survivor of a shipwreck. Nothing has changed except every so often he feels the box being jolted with movement. His brother’s inexpert handling makes every motion a sickening journey. There’s no pattern to it that Sans can predict, and though he’s practically an expert in passing unendurable time, the long hours he spends inside the box are some of the worst in his life. He’s exhausted, but every time the box shakes anew he’s startled back to confused awareness, fighting back panic anew.   


It feels endless, unbearable, and at some point his mind conjures the nightmarish prospect that maybe it really  _ won’t _ end. Gaster is gone. There’s no reason to play their games any more. Maybe Papyrus will forget about him and leave him locked in the box to starve, to turn into dust all over his favourite things. It’ll take a long time. Skeletons don’t need much food, but eventually, eventually…

When Papyrus does finally open the box, the disappointment is crushing.

Fresh air hits him like a slap, the overhead lights glaring directly into his sockets. His mouth is a desert and his bones feel bruised and tender, sore from so much jostling and friction. He wants to wail as Papyrus reaches for him, carefully extracting him from the stifling cocoon of fabric. His hands fondle Sans’s bones, feeling with casual intimacy over his spine, his ribs and his pelvis for any signs of harm. It’s not pleasant, but it’s familiar enough to calm Sans’s clenching soul.   


There’s a palpable breath of relief when Papyrus doesn’t find any damage, and he settles down with Sans across his lap in a familiar, clinging embrace. It’s too tight, too much, but Sans can’t do anything but flop limply against his brother’s shoulder.

“We’re here, Sans,” Papyrus tells him, face nuzzling into the crook of Sans’s neck. His voice wavers, thick with emotion. “Our new home.”

It’s not at all a comfort to realise that his brother still needs him, perhaps now more than ever in their father’s absence, and Sans numbly thinks this must be his punishment for daring to think it might be over.

* * *

Their new home is in fact in New Home, which is the kind of pun Sans would have found hilarious once upon a time. Papyrus’s new room is larger than his old one, generously decorated with homey comforts that don’t exceed unreasonable extravagance. The large horned monster, who Sans eventually figures out is the Queen, visits frequently though Papyrus always stops her at the door. Occasionally he’ll be lured into the corridor by the offer of a glass of milk or a slice of pie, but offers to play with the other royal children or to read with the Queen herself are all politely refused. She’s gently insistent that he joins the royal family for meal times, but other than that Papyrus stays inside with the door locked.   


The first week is almost pleasant. Papyrus may not be willing to approach the other children, but after a few quiet days he begins to regain his usual exuberance. He crafts a soft throne of pillows and props Sans on it so he can be the princess to Papyrus’s games of honorable knight. Sans is the pretend host of royal banquets and tea parties that always get mysteriously interrupted by stampedes of stuffed animals that Papyrus valiantly fights off with declarations of loyalty and love. His teeth click skeletal kisses on Sans’s fingers every time he emerges victorious. It would be endearing if only Sans didn’t know how these games tended to end.

It takes Papyrus several days to work up the courage. Gaster’s not around anymore to tell him what to do, but when Papyrus removes their clothes and lays Sans out on the bed his expression is of nervous determination.   


“It’s okay, Princess,” he whispers against Sans’s mouth. “I know fath-...t-the King isn’t here any more, but the Great Knight Papyrus will take care of you.”

It’s sickening that Gaster has convinced Papyrus that this is part of Sans’s care, as ordinary as washing or feeding him. He gets to work between Sans’s legs with the diligence he’s been taught, and it isn’t long before Sans’s pussy manifests, helpless to the stimulation. The next step takes longer. Papyrus has only used his hands and his tongue before, but with Gaster gone he seems intent on ensuring that Sans is properly attended to. It takes several excruciating minutes for him to properly form his magic into a cock, but eventually the magic takes its proper shape. It’s not much smaller than Gaster’s was, and Sans doesn’t know if that’s a sign of his brother’s growth and magic potential, or if he’s simply trying to imitate their father as much as possible.   


“I-it’s okay, Princess,” Papyrus assures Sans, slightly sweaty and strained from the unfamiliar exertion. “This is the game grownups play when they love each other. Let me show you.”

He goes slowly and gently, as if Sans really is some fantasy virgin being introduced to sex for the first time. It doesn’t hurt, and Sans can’t cry but Papyrus does as he thrusts unevenly and clumsily into his brother’s smaller body.

“I love you, Sans,” he whimpers, tears running down his face, and Sans hadn’t thought he could feel any dirtier and more disgusting after what Gaster put him through, but he’s proven wrong.   


* * *

Papyrus does his best. He sneaks in basins of water so he can wash the sweat and cum off Sans’s bones. He does his best to scrub the inevitable stains out of Sans’s clothing. He always makes sure there’s food in the morning for Sans’s all-important medicine, but one morning as he’s measuring out a careful spoonful Sans catches him frowning in consternation at the jar. There’s only a thin layer of powder left at the bottom. It’s almost empty.

“I couldn’t find any more,” Papyrus confides in him, sprinkling it over a slice of pie. It’s better than the usual oatmeal, but Sans doesn’t think he’ll ever enjoy the taste of butterscotch again. “It’s almost gone, and...Sans, I don’t want you to break again.”

Gaster had been careful to impress how dangerous it was for Sans not to get his medicine, though not for the reasons Papyrus believes. The stump of his humerus is a constant, ghostly ache where his arm no longer resides. Papyrus touches the severed bone, looking guilty and conflicted.   


“I’m not meant to talk about it, but...do you think the Queen would know how to get some?” Papyrus’s voice is almost a whisper, as if he’s worried Gaster might overhear him. “She’s very smart, and she told me to ask if I need anything…”

Sans isn’t even really listening anymore. It’s easier to pretend he’s just an object, unable to have a thought or opinion. Then his earnest, innocent brother isn’t complicit in nightly rape and Sans isn’t the kind of filth unable to stop it from happening. It’s a much nicer story than the truth. Sometimes he almost believes it.   


Pie is forced into his mouth, and Sans stares at the opposite wall, counting the faded stars on the wallpaper. He doesn’t bother keeping track of the ones he’s already counted, just keeps going to infinity. The drone of numbers keeps his thoughts occupied enough to maintain the illusion of insentience, consuming enough that he doesn’t hear anything else Papyrus says, or notice his departure. He’s getting better at being nothing, so much so that it’s not until he feels an unfamiliar hand on his face that he’s belatedly aware of his body and surroundings again.

He knows Papyrus’s touch, the porus scrape of bone on bone. The hand on his face is large and warm, cushioned by white fur. His eyelights are slow to focus, and he’s distantly surprised to see the Queen kneeling in front of him with Papyrus hovering uncertainty at her back.

“-name is Sans,” Papyrus is saying, fingers tangling anxiously in his scarf. His sockets are wide and wet with sincerity. “Daddy told me he’s special and he needs to be fed his medicine every day or else he’ll break apart, and I’m not meant to tell anyone but I don’t have any more and I don’t want to lose him too, and-”

“It’s okay, my child,” the Queen tells him, her voice even and soothing even while a furrow of consternation has appeared between her brows. “Take a breath. I’ll do what I can to fix your...friend?”

She takes hold of Sans’s severed arm, pulling back the empty sleeve to look at where the bone was twisted off. Gaste made sure to cauterise the magic node at the joint to ensure Sans could never re-attach anything there again, and the bone is still dull and black at the end. She stares at it for a long moment, the furrows in her expression growing deeper.

“That’s where Sans broke the first time,” Papyrus says, looking ashamed. “That’s why he needs his medicine. Do you have any?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, my child,” the Queen replies. Her large hands move with surprising delicacy when they pull up Sans’s other sleeve, comparing the joints of each arm. “Did your father make this himself? The body feels like real bone...and there’s no wires between the joints. Is this magic, or…?”

She goes still with almost frightening suddenness. Even Papyrus seems alarmed, though he can’t possibly see the darkening clouds of suspicion rolling over her expression like Sans can. He wonders if, like Gaster, her mood might explode in a sudden tantrum to be taken out on Sans’s limp body, but instead of a blow what hits him is a CHECK. She stares at him, though him, right into his soul. It’s more exposing than being naked, but his discomfort feels negligible to the bare shock on her face.

“Oh my,” she breathes, her voice sounding strangled. “This is...Papyrus? Where did this boy come from?”

“Sans has always been with us,” Papyrus replies, as confused by the question as the Queen seems to be by the need to ask it. “He belonged to Daddy.”

“Sans,” the Queen repeats, soft and numb. “He once had a son named Sans. He was very sick, and-”

She cuts herself off with a violent shake and reaches for Sans. Her hands glow with luminous green magic, and when she touches him he feels a jolt of warmth through his marrow. It’s like the sweet rush that comes when he gets fed each morning, but instead of being followed by painful ricture, something in his body gives, loosens like a screw untightening, and for the first time in years a small, strangled sound slips out of him - a weak cry of agony.

“Papyrus,” the Queen says, and though her voice isn’t any louder than before, there’s a note of steel in it. Even so, her touch is infinitely gentle as she gathers Sans into her arms, lifting his small body with ease. “We need to go to the infirmary immediately, and you must tell me everything you can about Sans and this medicine.”

“Okay.” Papyrus’s voice sounds small and scared, unsure but obedient.

Sans’s marrow is burning, a hot blaze that throbs right through his body, but in the Queen’s hold his body gives a little tremble and eases from its usual stiffness to a laxness that almost makes the pain worthwhile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter commissioned by a secret fandom benefactor. 8D Please enjoy their gift to the fandom!
> 
> Warnings: Discussion of sexual abuse of children, long-term abuse, the after-effects of long-term non-consensual drugging, some body horror and descriptions of blood/injury.

Papyrus is trying to be brave. It’s meant to be his primary trait, and Daddy was always so proud, telling him how good and strong he was being each time he introduced a new game to play with Sans. He doesn’t understand why; the games were nice, mostly, aside from a distant twinge of discomfort at how he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone else when he really wanted to brag about how good he was at them. Maybe if the other kids in town had known how great he was, they’d beg to be allowed to play with him. Surely then Daddy would relent let him have friends...or even just a friend. That might have been nice.

(No, that’s wrong. Sans is his friend. Sans knows about the games. If he could talk, he’d be able to encourage Papyrus and tell him how good he is at them, how brave he is for playing, since Daddy can’t any more. Playing the games without that constant, warm reassurance being murmured against his skull is a lot harder and scarier than Papyrus expected.)

After a brisk stop at the main hall, the Queen takes Sans to the infirmary. Papyrus tries to follow, but the King has a gentle grip on his shoulders, holding him back. Papyrus whimpers, wringing his hands. “Is Sans going to be okay?”

“I’m sure he will, my child,” Asgore says in his deep, booming voice. Usually, Papyrus likes the way it sounds, big enough to fill a space even as large as the throne room, but right now it’s making him feel small and cornered. There’s none of Asgore’s usual joviality and kindness in it. Papyrus didn’t fully understand what the Queen told him, but the King feels less like the person Papyrus sits across from at dinner, and more like the one who spoke grave words at Gaster’s funeral, made to allow people to properly mourn him when there was no dust to spread over a beloved object.

(Papyrus is sure Gaster would have wanted his dust spread over Sans. He’d asked for some flour from the kitchen, which Toriel had given him with quizzical bemusement, and performed his own private ritual to properly honor his father. The white had caked unpleasantly on Sans’s bones, making them look even more chalky, and afterwards there’d been a lot of crumbs and residue left in the sheets that had only gotten messier with the addition of cyan and orange fluids. Papyrus didn’t feel like he’d done it properly, but the amount of clean-up involved made him reluctant to try again.)

“Tra la la. One was lost, and another has been found.”

Papyrus startles at the cloaked figure standing at Asgore’s elbow, who he was sure hadn’t been standing there a moment ago. There’s nothing but darkness under their hood, but somehow Papyrus feels the weight of their gaze. Something uncomfortable itches between his scapulae, but he’s frozen in place, unable to shake it off. Slowly, their head tilts to the side in consideration.

“Is this a fair exchange? Balance is returned, but what justice is to be served?”

Papyrus isn’t sure how he’s expected to answer, but thankfully their attention is diverted by a gruff admonishment. 

“Stop scaring the poor boy.”

Gerson’s approach wasn’t masked at all, but Papyrus still flinches again. The old turtle approaches, his gait hunched and stiff with the weight of his years and his armor, but the smile he directs at Papyrus is gentle. “Nice to see you again, young’en.”

Papyrus gives a small wave, his discomfort momentarily abated by the arrival of a more familiar face. Gerson is a frequent visitor to the King’s residence, stopping in to deliver reports or drink tea and tell stories. The King’s children, Chara and Asriel, seem a little bored by them, but Papyrus finds them fascinating. The Guard Captain serves the Kingdom not with science like his father, but with devious puzzles and clever combat strategies that are far more comprehensible to Papyrus than formulae and equations. Obviously he wants to grow up to be as great as Gaster was, but maybe he can do it as a guard rather than in the core.

“Thank you for coming, my friends,” Asgore says, his large hand coming to rest reassuringly on Papyrus’s shoulder, turning him slightly to face the cowled stranger. “Papyrus, I would like you to meet our Judge. They work with Gerson in service of the Kingdom.”

Papyrus perks up slightly. “They’re a guard?”

Gerson gives a wheezing chuckle. “Something like that.”

“Protecting and serving,” the Judge states, their voice dry. It makes Gerson laugh more for some reason.

“They help determine the truth about things,” Asgore tells him, not seeming to share in the levity. “I believe they can help us here. It’s important that we learn more about Sans so we can help him.”

Helping Sans is what he wants, but Papyrus can’t help but cringe. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth grind together, a sound that grates through his skull alongside his father’s voice, berating him for having broken the rules. Neither Asgore nor Toriel have sounded angry, but he can’t shake the irrevocable certainty in his bones that he’s in trouble. He looks down at the floor, clutching tightly at his own ribs, wishing it was Sans’s comforting weight pressing against him instead. “Okay…”

Asgore’s hand squeezes his shoulder, which isn’t quite as good, but is nice in its own way. “Come. I shall make some tea for us all, and then we can talk.”

The King’s warm grip guides Papyrus down the corridor, easy strength overriding the reluctance of his dragging feet. Gerson and the Judge fall into step behind them, making for a strangely solemn procession despite the usually uplifting promise of tea. 

The room Asgore leads them to isn’t the homey dining room used by the royal family, but another, more spacious hall with a table so large it feels like it could seat half of New Home. Papyrus is given the seat at the very end which is several times too large for a skeleton child. Asgore carefully arranges several cushions to prop Papyrus up to a more suitable height while Gerson scowls intently at the tea pot as if it needs watching in order to steep. The Judge hums softly to themself, seemingly oblivious to the heavy silence that’s only broken when Asgore finally moves to fill their tea cups. 

“Now then,” Asgore begins, his face grave as he looks to Papyrus. “If you would, Papyrus, please tell us what you know about Sans.”

Papyrus keeps his gaze on his lap, his hands fisting anxiously in his leggings. “Sans is my...friend?”

The tries the word, testing if it’ll hold weight. Sans is more than any of the other toys his father has ever given him, something special and unique, but a small part of him knows that if Chara were here they would primly declare that Sans wasn’t a  _ real _ friend. Real friends could talk and laugh and hug each other when they were sad. Sans couldn’t do that, but it wasn’t his fault! That’s just how he was.

It’s hard to think about, so he hastily moves on.

“He belongs to Daddy, but Daddy lets me keep him during the day.” He realises a moment too late that he didn’t use the right word. “He...let me. But now he’s gone so Sans stays with me all the time.”

“And what did your father tell you about Sans?” Asgore asks. His voice is soft, gentle, but the warmth that Papyrus is used to hearing from him is starkly absent. Papyrus feels chilled without it, like he’s standing in front of the empty hearth in Toriel’s study. 

“Sans is special,” Papyrus parrots obediently, the lesson firmly drilled into him. “And Sans is fragile. We have to be careful with him, or he’ll break. That’s what the powder is for.”

“The powder...from the jar you showed to Toriel?”

“Yes!”

Gerson tilts his head in consternation. “Did someone check that yet?”

“It’s been sent to Alphys for testing,” Asgore says, his voice pitched lower, as if in an aside that Papyrus isn’t meant to hear. “But Sans’s mana flow has been made dormant. My Queen believes this compound is the cause.”

Papyrus doesn’t understand what that means, but he feels compelled to add, “Sans needs to take his medicine. One day I forgot, and he broke. That’s why he doesn’t have an arm any more. Daddy was very mad.”

A profound silence meets his statement. The Judge is looking at him, and Papyrus can feel that unpleasant itching between his shoulder-blades again. His mouth feels dry, but he doesn’t dare reach for the tea. He doesn’t deserve it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s all right, little one,” Asgore says, folding his arms heavily across the table in front of him. He isn’t drinking his tea either. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“Tra la la,” the Judge chimes in. “Nothing comes from nowhere, not even one who is without.”

Their words sound like nonsense to Papyrus, but Gerson nodded. “Aye, where did the lad come from? I’ve never seen a report for a missing skeleton anywhere in the underground.”

“No, but there was one recorded death.” Asgore’s expression is pained. He looks like he feels as bad on the inside as Papyrus does. “Gaster’s firstborn. I never heard much, but Gaster said his son was weak and sickly, and that his passing was more expected than not. He kept the boy at home, and mourned in private when he was gone.”

He turns his serious gaze on Papyrus. “Did you know you had a brother?”

Papyrus blinks, perplexed. “No. I don’t have any siblings. Only Sans.”

“Yes,” Asgore agrees heavily. “I do believe that Sans was the name of the boy. I have requested the record to confirm this, but Toriel also believes it to be so.”

Gerson grips the edge of the table with a force that makes the wood creak ominously. “So he kept his own son…?”

Asgore nods. “It seems likely.”

“The man who speaks in hands has his reasons,” the Judge says, their cloak seeming to swell with the discordant note of emotion in their sonorous voice. “Selfish reasons. Terrible reasons. Tell us, young one, about this dark purpose.”

“Um,” Papyrus leans back in the chair, away from their intense, eyeless gaze. “D-dark purpose?”

“How did your father behave with Sans?” Asgore clarifies, his posture hunched in contrast to the judge, as if to make himself smaller and less threatening. “Was he...kind to him?”

Papyrus beams. “Oh yes! Daddy loved Sans a lot. He would play with him almost every night.”

Asgore’s expression went blank. “Play with him?”

Papyrus nodded enthusiastically. “If I was good, I got to play too!”

“What sort of games did you play, sonny?” Gerson asks. There’s an ease in his voice that isn’t mirrored in the firm grip he suddenly has on Asgore’s arm, holding into him almost as tightly as he did the table. 

As eager as he is to please, Papyrus feels his voice tangle in the back of his throat, the long-held secret clotting before it can escape. He shifts in his seat, looking uneasily towards the shadows in the room as though he might find his father waiting there, listening. “Daddy said I’m not supposed to tell anyone about it or I won’t be allowed to play anymore. It’s a grown up game. I only get to play because I’m special too, like Sans.”

If Gerson wasn’t holding Asgore down, the King might have risen to his feet in a burst of vehement energy. As it is, he looks like he’s trying valiantly not to loom imposingly over Papyrus, to keep still even as his shoulders quiver with tension. His usually soft muzzle keeps curling to reveal fangs Papyrus hadn’t known he’d had. Even so, his voice is as even tempered as ever when he says, “Papyrus, please, it’s very important that you tell us about these games. I promise you won’t be in trouble.”

Papyrus looks down at his knees, struggling with the creeping certainty that his father would be disappointed in him, but hadn’t Gaster also said that being honest was important? All three adults are staring at him, silent and expectant, and he doesn’t want to disappoint them -- especially not Asgore, who has been so kind to him.

“It’s the game where we take our clothes off and make each other feel good,” he says finally, and oddly, it feels good to finally talk about it. It’s like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, letting him breathe a little deeper and easier. “Daddy said it’s the game grown-ups play when they love each other, and he loves me and Sans very much, so-”

There’s a violent explosion of movement as Asgore rises to his feet, the chair falling heedlessly to the floor behind him as he tears free of Gerson’s hold. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders quiver forcefully. If Papyrus did that, his bones would be rattling loudly, but Asgore is completely and terrifyingly silent as he steps away from the table. He paces in what little space is available, his large strides crossing the space in swift, devouring steps.

“You should take a walk, Sire,” Gerson says mildly, looking unperturbed despite the uncharacteristic behavior. 

Papyrus braces anxiously against the back of his chair, and dares to whisper, “Is he mad?”

Gerson gives him a sympathetic look. “Not at you, sonny. He just needs to-”

“His  _ children _ ,” Asgore says. His voice sounds ragged, like he’s run the length of the castle instead of circling the tight space of the hall. “His  _ own children _ !?”

“-settle down and get his head on straight,” Gerson continues loudly, as if Asgore hadn’t spoken at all. “Out in the gardens, if need be.”

“No, I...I’m all right,” Asgore says, catching himself mid-step. He holds himself still, breathing deeply and evenly until the tension in his posture subsides. With deliberate care, he picks up his fallen chair, setting it firmly back on all four legs before gingerly lowering himself back into it. Papyrus is afraid to see what lies in his expression, but as Asgore lifts his heavy head, there’s only deep sadness on his face. He gazes into Papyrus’s sockets, his muzzle quivering slightly before he says, “I’m so very sorry, Papyrus.”

Papyrus nods uncertainly. It seems like a very profound apology for such a small outburst, but he doesn’t want Asgore to feel bad about it. He reaches out to pat the monarch’s large hand. “It’s okay! I don’t mind!”

Asgore looks stricken. “No, I mean...for what has happened to you. It was very wrong of your father to make you play such a game. It is most certainly not meant for children. It can be dangerous, scary and painful. There can be long-lasting consequences that might affect your future. It should not have happened, and had I known…”

Asgore pauses, seemingly struggling for words. The corner of his mouth is curling again, showing that dangerous hint of fang, but something in Papyrus’s wide-socketed alarm makes him catch himself. He takes another painfully deep breath, features smoothing back down. “I know this may be difficult for you to talk about. I must ask you to be brave, and tell us more about your father, Sans and these...activities you engaged in.”

Papyrus nodded slowly. He didn’t like that whatever he said had made Asgore so upset, but he wanted to make up for it, he really did, and of course he could be brave! Hadn’t he always done what his father asked, even if it was hard? (Even if it hurt? Even if it made him feel strange and lost and lonely in the middle of the night when his father and Sans weren’t around to hold him?)

But first, he had to be sure. “Then you can help Sans, right? So he won’t break again?”

“We will do our very best to ensure nothing bad will happen to him or to you ever again,” Asgore swore solemnly. “You have a King’s promise.”

“Wow,” Papyrus breathed, a little stunned. He didn’t know anyone else who had a King’s promise. Surely that was a very special gift given only to special people. He could still be special, even if he couldn’t play his father’s games any more. Maybe now Chara would stop teasing him, too. Surely that counted as something ‘bad’ that he would be protected from. “Okay! What do you want to know?”

Asgore looked between the Judge and Gerson, their faces a mirror of his resolve as he steeled himself to ask the first question.

<hr>

The boy -- though it’s hard to think of him as such when he lies so unnervingly still -- has made no sound beyond that first broken cry. Toriel has poured her very soul into the healing attempt, but though his body is unmarked and a CHECK assures her that his HP is at its alarming maximum of 1, there is no sign of life. She would think him dead, except that his body has yet to crumble to dust. She has never, in all her years, seen such a thing. The Royal Physician, Lance, is equally bewildered, and even more perturbed when Toriel explains her suspicions about the powder.

“I have set the new Royal Scientist on analysing it for us,” Toriel tells Lance as the diminutive monster flutters restlessly in the air. “I fear that only then will we be able to help him properly.”

“Unfortunately so, my Queen,” Lance agrees. Their voice is deep and gravelly, almost absurdly so for a Whimsalot. Lance mutters a prayer into his palm and unleashes its fluttering shape towards Sans. The spell is absorbed, just as Toriel’s was, to the same lack of effect. “Our magic cannot touch this, whatever it is.”

It’s agonising, having the child so close, and yet being unable to reach him. His open sockets gape emptily, lacking the small lights of his pupils that were present earlier. The rictus grin on his face is a disturbing mask, violently at odds with what she reads from his soul every time she CHECKS him.

_ Sans. An empty husk. _

_ Sans. A lost child who doesn’t want to be found. _

_ Sans. Tired of playing. Tired of living. Wants the game to end. _

She wants nothing more than to sweep the poor child up into her arms, to assure him that everything will be fine now, but with his body so fragile she doesn’t dare touch him for fear of doing harm. It’s safer for him to lie on one of the infirmary’s cots, covered with a light sheet to protect him from the cold. His pretty dress has been exchanged for a much more simple slip that starkly outlines every thin, delicate bone. She had never believed a skeleton could look emaciated, but Sans has proven her wrong. His tiny body is as fine as china, pale and breakable.

(Across Sans’s pelvis is a grey lattice of stress-cracks, injuries old and new layered atop each other. The sight had filled her with such a terrible, terrible fury that even Lance -- a former royal guard, a hardened soldier from the war -- had almost absconded partway through the examination to get away from her. Gaster is very lucky he’s not alive to have to face Toriel down in the Judgement Hall.)

There’s nothing for her to do but watch and wait, standing guard over the small, defenceless form in the bed. She politely demurs when Lance tries to insist she join them on break, choosing to stay in quiet vigil, accompanied only by the dire imaginings of what she would do if the boy’s father were still around. It’s hours later when a hesitant knock breaks her from her reverie.

“H-hello?”

The voice is familiar, and greatly anticipated. Toriel rises from her vigil and carefully draws the curtain around Sans’s bed, hiding him from view before turning to the new arrival. 

“Alphys,” Toriel greets warmly. “Please come in.”

Nervously, Alphys complies, taking small furtive steps and wincing each time her footfalls echo loudly in the empty infirmary. The new royal scientist is young, still anxiously uncertain about her appointment. Toriel has yet to discern whether her hunched posture is natural, or simply a demeanour she adopts around Royalty. 

“I h-have...” Alphys begins, then pauses, swallowing dryly to try master her persistent stutter. Her face is half-hidden behind a thick folder full of documents, muffling her already soft voice. “I’ve finished analysing the p-powder you gave me, my Queen.”

“So fast,” Toriel marvels. “Thank you, Alphys. Please tell me what you’ve found.”

“R-right,” Alphys says, fumbling hastily through the file. She nearly drops it in her haste, but manages to carefully extract a single page, holding it carefully between her claws so as not to tear it. “It’s um. It’s a c-compound mixture composed of twenty-eight percent silica and fifty-four percent calcium carbonate. Six percent is a chemical match for the freeze-dried nutrient formula created by Doctor Gaster to assist in rationing efforts during the war, and the final twelve percent is an inhibitor agent that seems to be used to render the inorganic elements of the compound to be both magically and chemically inert.”

Alphys’s voice grows in strength and surety as she talks, clearly much more in her element when it comes to her craft. Toriel is only passingly familiar with chemistry, only enough to recognise the terms, though not their effect. “Can you explain it to me in a more simple manner?”

Alphys squints dubiously at the paper, deep in thought. “W-well most of it is, uh. Sand. Just regular, non-magical sand. A-actually, the rest of the compound is designed to make sure that it stays sand. It won’t react or dissolve or melt, it won’t mix with magic which is kinda neat from an engineering standpoint, although the addition of the nutrient formula seems unnecessary if that’s it’s p-purpose...”

The rage Toriel had banked earlier when examining Sans burns hotly inside her, begging to be released. She forces it down, determined not to unnerve the already anxious Alphys. It’s an effort to keep her voice steady. “So what would be the effect if someone were to ingest this compound?”

Alphys blinks dumbly at her, then reels in alarm. “O-oh no! I-it’s not for consumption! Absolutely not, that would be t-terrible! The inhibitor compound would prevent the sand from being properly absorbed or processed, so it would j-just stay in the body, blocking up veins and arteries. T-that’d kill most monsters! Although I suppose it might not be immediately deadly for monsters without a proper circulatory system, b-but at the very least it would cause magical dysfunction and paralysis, not to mention the increase in density and physical mass which can lead to all sorts of…”

Alphys trails off, her expression turning from alarmed objection to horrified suspicion. “Um. Someone didn’t, uh. Eat this, did they? Because-”

Until Asgore and their advisors are finished learning what they can from Papyrus, it’s Toriel’s duty to protect Sans’s privacy as much as possible. As gently as she can, she says, “Thank you for your assistance with this, Alphys. Could you please prepare a full safety report on the hazards of someone being exposed to this compound, both internally and externally, and have it sent to me as soon as possible.”

Alphys rocks back on her heels, looking somewhat dazed. “O-of course, your majesty! I’ll have it to you before the end of the day!”

“Thank you,” Toriel tells her gratefully. “Please also keep both the powder and your findings confidential. It’s a matter of royal judgement.”

“Of course! I would never-! I mean, I’ll make sure I lock down my files and change my passwords! I’ll re-calibrate the traps at the Lab! I’ll-”

“Much appreciated,” Toriel says, gently shooing the flustered monster from the infirmary. “Perhaps ask the new guard recruit to help you with the recalibration. Undyne, I believe her name is.”

Alphys’s squeak of embarrassed objection makes her smile briefly, though it’s quick to fade once the other monster has scurried back towards her laboratory. The infirmary is deathly silent, which is only a good sign when it’s unoccupied. With heavy steps, Toriel makes her way back to Sans’s bed, pulling back the curtain to check on her charge. As expected, he looks exactly as she left him, frighteningly still, laid out like a human corpse on a mortuary bed. His species only makes the analogy more apt and disturbing.

With exquisite care, she takes his small hand in her own, examining it with fresh eyes. For his size, Sans’s body had been oddly heavy in her arms when she had carried him to the infirmary. His delicate forearm feels brittle but leaden in her grip, a weight that feels more like carved rock than bone. When she feels for his ambient magic, it’s dull and deadened, as if smothered under a crushing force, and with Alphys’s information she now has a harrowing idea of why.

When Lance returns, she has a tray of clean, sharp implements prepared. Each one is more crude and unpleasant than she would like, but she can think of no alternative to attempt the task she has in mind. 

Lance regards first the tray, then Toriel with a dubious expression. “What are these for?”

“An investigative procedure,” Toriel says steadily, selecting the smallest of the circular hole punches. It’s made for piercing flesh, but she doubts it will take much force to carve into Sans’s bones. She points to a small section of of the humerus that she’s marked off with ink. “I need you to keep his HP stable while I make a small incision. Please dull the pain as much as you can. I don’t want to use a sedative until we can be sure it won’t harm him.”

Lance frowns, but doesn’t question her command. They hover over Sans, arms spread wide, offering up a prayer to a deity that Toriel isn’t certain she believes in any more, but regardless of her skepticism she can feel the power take hold. Sans’s body is bathed in soft, warm light, protected from harm. Even so, she’s careful to focus her intent, thinking only of kindness and and mercy. The hole punch sinks easily into Sans’s arm, the bone as soft as soap. She punctures as deeply as she dares, and then pulls the tool free, leaving a perfect circular indent.

What immediately pours out isn’t blood or marrow. It’s a violent outpouring of gritty, solid mass that tinkles in the metal catch tray she set up beneath it. Even though it’s stained faintly pink, it looks enough like dust that she can’t blame Lance for recoiling with a wretch, staring in horror. “W-what’s that?”

“Sand,” Toriel replies, her voice distant, numb, as she watches it pour from the tiny hole. Even though she was expecting it, her own throat is tight and her mouth tastes of acidic dismay. “His bones are full of sand.”

In days long before the war and the invention of modern manufacturing, she’d been gifted a hand-stitched doll by her parents. The skin had been woven of a tough sawgrass fibre and the inside had been stuffed with sand -- a more hardy material for a young monster not yet in full mastery of her fire magic. She wonders if Gaster drew his inspiration from a similar source in his quest to strip his son of his personhood and turn him into an insensate, immovable puppet.

“His bones…” Lance says, looking over Sans’s body. Even at a conservative estimate for a young monster who hadn’t fully developed their form, he has more than two hundred individual bones. Each one will need to be pierced and drained separately, and not even their combined good intent can make it entirely painless. Lance blanches. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“Yes,” Toriel agrees, resolutely rolling up her sleeves. “We do.”

The devastating realisation that she’ll need to compound the boy’s suffering to undo the damage his father wrought isn’t enough to keep her from doing what needs to be done to free him from his paralysis. She hopes he’ll be able to forgive her once he wakes. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious fandom benefactor commissioning this fic has gifted you all in time for Christmas! 8D Also, I huge thank you to [Kamari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamari333/pseuds/Kamari333) for beta-ing this for me!

Sans thought he knew what hell was like.

Hell is the sound of silent screaming inside his own skull. Hell is the endless hours of boredom gnawing away at his sanity. Hell is seeing the hopeful yearning in Papyrus’s eye, that desperate desire to do good, as Gaster orders him to put his mouth on Sans’s pussy. 

He was wrong.

Hell is the crawling feeling of a thousand particles shifting inside his bones, like an army of ants trying to march to freedom. Hell is the kiss of a scalpel’s blade against his spine as the Queen tries to figure out the best place to make an incision. Hell is having his refuge of numbness scraped and scoured and flushed out of him, leaving each bone an island of agony in the broken archipelago of his body.

Before they started, the Queen explained to him that they would go slow and careful, but that they weren’t sure they could give him anything for the pain. She’s afraid to introduce more foreign compounds to his system, unsure whether his weakened body could handle them. Her apology is heavy and sincere and absolutely meaningless as she and the doctor start breaking Sans open, and Sans’s long-strangled voice does its very best to tear its way out of his paralysed throat in a shredding cry of torment.

The sound he makes is barely a whimper, but the Queen must realise what a cruelty it is to continue while he’s conscious. She changes her approach immediately, ordering the doctor to prepare a potent tincture and administers it herself, holding Sans’s skull in one large paw as she helps him drink it down. It’s sweet as honey on his tongue, and almost immediately his sockets grow heavy. Darkness closes in, heavy and suffocating as the box Papyrus packed him in to bring him here, compressing his awareness down to an inescapable prison of sleep. 

His living hell becomes a nightmare.

Like a nightmare, it’s surreal, sometimes insensible. The pain feels dim and distant, but the horror is even closer, like a cold fist around his soul. Sans dreams of dust, of dusting, of his bones falling to pieces. He dreams of the injection Gaster put into his arm that made it turn black and crumble like ash, but this time the decay doesn’t stop at his humerus. It keeps going, crawling up to his shoulder, eating away at him while he watches. His ribs crumble and shatter, falling down through his pelvis, leaving his soul exposed to Gaster’s hungry, leering gaze. 

If there’s any more to that scene, he thankfully doesn’t remember it. True memories and awful imaginings blur together, interspersed with the occasional, ephemeral periods of dull emptiness that are the only kind of peace Sans knows. He basks in it, trying to recapture that feeling of being a forgotten toy in an abandoned house; finally alone, finally free of the role of being his father’s obscene plaything. Sometimes he’ll catch the distant flavor of honey in his mouth again, and sink into something like true unconsciousness, and that’s even better. If death is as quiet and kind as this, Sans wishes it would come sooner.

When waking comes, it’s an unfathomable disappointment.

He resists it for as long as possible. He wills himself to just cease existing, but eventually he can’t deny the sensation of air passing through his nasal cavity, the flex of his ribs as they rise and fall with each breath. Even that subtle movement burns, a deep, heated ache that razes him from head to toe. 

It hurts. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

His sockets are open, but he doesn’t even try to summon his eye-lights. He’s still desperately hoping that maybe this is just another strange phase of the nightmare, a strange echo of the past that’s followed him into the afterlife, and that he’s not truly here. It’s a wish that seems less and less feasible the longer it endures, as his awareness sharpens to encompass further unwanted signs of reality. There’s soft sheets above and beneath him. There’s a pillow under his skull. There’s a large hand wrapped around his own that gives a brief squeeze, its owner seeming to sense that something has changed.

“Sans?”

Sans doesn’t react. It’s a trick; he’s not here, he’s not alive, he’s not real. Go away.

There’s a shuffle of heavy movement. The hand around his feels much warmer than his bones, which makes him belatedly realise that he feels cold. It’s an odd sensation. His (Gaster’s) home is in Snowdin, but as a prisoner of the house, Sans hasn’t felt the touch of snow or the bite of a cold wind in years. The insulated temperature of the house was just another static, unchanging facet of his existence. The clammy chill of his bones is new; unpleasant, unwanted.

He thinks the Queen might be leaning over him. He can tell it’s her; the radiance of her magic is subtly different from any other monster he’s ever known. The aura of a boss monster is something his soul can recognise, despite all his years of sheltered, ignorant captivity.

“I don’t know if you can hear me yet,” she tells him. “But in case you can, you should know that everything went well. You were very strong and brave during the surgery. Your body is already recovering. I am so very, very proud of you.”

The words flow over him, gentle, calming and enticing, but Sans rejects them. He’s not recovering. He’s a broken toy, cracked and empty. With Gaster’s passing, he’s ownerless and purposeless, ready to be disposed of. If he’s gone, maybe Papyrus will finally get better. They’ll both be free. It’s the only thing Sans wants.

“You may not be ready right away,” the Queen tells him, “but if you would like to try to move, or to speak, I would very much like to see that. Only when you feel ready for it.”

Sans doesn’t react. It’s easy now. He’s had years and years of practice. Eventually she’ll realise he’s not a person. He can’t be anymore. He doesn’t even want to be. All he wants is that sense of nothingness back, to finally be in a place where no one can reach him. Where no one can make demands of his mind or his body that he’s helpless to stop. Where he doesn’t have to think or remember anything that’s happened to him.

He never asked to be healed. He didn’t ask her to try and fix him. He doesn’t want this, and this time, he won’t be tricked. He’s not being cheated out of his final freedom. She won’t bring him back.

She sighs, drawing away again. “I understand. Perhaps you will feel like trying later. Until then, I will be here with you.”

If she thinks she can win a waiting game against him, she’ll be disappointed. The only skills Sans has had opportunity to master are the arts of enduring patiently and doing absolutely nothing. He can do them as long as he needs to, as long as he has to, to convince her that there was nothing left in him to be saved. 

* * *

They promised they were going to fix Sans.  _ They promised. _

Papyrus anxiously paces the length of his new room in short, anxious steps that don’t suit his lanky legs. He could go outside where there was more space, if he wanted. He’s not trapped -- there’s a very nice guard waiting just outside his bedroom door who will happily escort him anywhere he wants to go.

Anywhere that isn’t where Sans is.

The assignment of the guard was reluctantly employed after the second time Papyrus was caught sneaking out to find his brother. Both the King and Queen had sat him down for a long and serious discussion about how it was ‘currently inadvisable’ that Sans receive any visitors, and that he was ‘in difficult recovery’. They won’t tell him any more than that. They won’t tell him whether Sans is getting the powder. They won’t let him see Sans. They won’t...they won’t…

He pauses abruptly mid-stride to kneel down, a painful sob working its way out of his chest. It’s been happening a lot since they took Sans away from him; the tears welling up, as sudden and unstoppable as a sneeze. Chara says he’s turning into more of a crybaby than Asriel, which is why Papyrus has been keeping to his room more and more so at least there’s fewer witnesses to his outbursts. That doesn’t stop the guard from knocking on his door, peering in with deep worry in her eyes.

“Are you...all right?” Knight-Knight asks in her slow, lumbering voice. Having a Royal Guard watching over him should have been exciting and fun, but Papyrus is having trouble feeling anything besides the constant, stressful uncertainty left in the wake of Sans’s absence. 

“O-oh, yes! I’m fine! There’s just...something in my socket!” Frantically, he tries to scrub his face clean, hiding away the evidence. He doesn’t want her thinking he’s a crybaby too. “It’s quite painful, but nothing I cannot handle!”

Most of her expression is hidden by her helmet, but he thinks maybe she doesn’t look very convinced by his claim. “I am here...if you would like to talk.”

“Thank you! That is very kind, but-” his voice hitches, almost breaks before he steadies it, “-you see, there is nothing to worry about. I am okay.”

She inclines her heavy head, taking a painfully long time to withdraw from the room. Papyrus waits until the door is closed before stumbling over to the bed, taking one of the oversized pillows and clutching it to his body. It’s too soft. It’s nothing at all like Sans, whose bones fit perfectly against his like they were made for each other. The pillow doesn’t radiate the same warmth or resonance that always made Sans feel so alive. It’s just cotton and wool, a lifeless weight, but he buries his face into it all the same to muffle the next sob that wrenches its way out of his throat.

It’s strange; he had cried for his father, of course. His loss was a mournful weight resting on Papyrus’s shoulders, a heavy, immovable burden...but Sans’s absence is as sharp as a knife twisting constantly in his soul, as vicious as Chara’s taunts, as awful as a broken bone. His chest feels tight and his thoughts won't settle, chasing themselves around in frantic circles. Papyrus feels lost and alone in ways he hadn’t with his father’s absence, his constantly churning like it’s tying itself in knots. 

He hasn’t slept since Sans left him. His sockets ache constantly alongside the throbbing in his skull. Food has lost its appeal, even the lovely pies the Queen makes, and even though they still ask him to join them each night for dinner, he only stirs the food around on his plate, unable to eat. 

There’s another knock at the door. Papyrus takes a deep breath. He puts the pillow back, turned upside down to hide the new wet splotches in the shape of his sockets and nasal cavity. He tries to put on his brave smile, the one Daddy always complimented him for. “Come in!”

Instead of Knight-Knight, this time it’s the King himself who enters, looking out of place in the heavy robes he wears when he’s performing his duties. He looks down at Papyrus with that same pained expression he’s worn ever since their conversation about Sans and the games. Papyrus is seeing a lot of that look on the grown-ups around him lately. He thinks it might be pity.

“Hello Papyrus,” Asgore greets solemnly. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’m extremely well!” Papyrus assures him fervently, sitting down on the edge of the mattress so it won’t be obvious how his knees shake under his own weight. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he was sick as well, and use that as a reason to keep him away from Sans. “I think I even slept a little last night! It was very restful.”

“I see,” Asgore says. His eyes flick briefly towards the small table that still holds Papyrus’s breakfast, long since gone cold and entirely untouched. Papyrus tries to hide his wince. He should have remembered to at least scramble the food a little to make it seem like he’d tried. Asgore doesn’t mention it, though, simply asking, “Perhaps you would like to join me for lunch? I always find it better to eat with company.”

“No thank you,” Papyrus says, eminently polite, before donning his most hopeful expression. “But what I would really, really like is to see Sans? Please?”

It’s not that Papyrus wants to disappoint Asgore, but he just really doesn’t see the point in eating or anything else until he and Sans are back together again. Unfortunately, as with every time before, Asgore gives him another pained (pitying) look. The answer is already plain on his face even before he sinks down to Papyrus’s eye-level to say, “I’m very sorry, my child, but the time is not yet right for that. Sans is...in a delicate state.”

Papyrus nods assertively, because he most certainly understands even though he’s not sure that Asgore does. Sans is always delicate. That’s why he needs Papyrus to care for him. “Will the right time be soon, do you think? Because I really m-miss him.”

Another wracking sob tries to claw its way out of his chest, but Papyrus determinedly swallows it back. He’s not a crybaby. He’s not bad. There’s no reason to think that Asgore is keeping Sans from him as a punishment, but he’s trying to be on his best behavior just in case. 

(He shouldn’t have told anyone about the games. He shouldn’t have let them know about Sans. He broke the rules and now he’s going to lose everything, just like Daddy told him he would.)

Asgore pats his skull, a warm touch of fatherly approval that Papyrus leans desperately into as he tries to keep the tears trapped in his sockets. “As soon as it can be, my child, to prevent any further harm to you both. I know it is difficult to be patient, but you must remain strong and be well. Take care of yourself, and allow us to take care of Sans.”

Papyrus nods carefully, holding his body tense to keep his bones from rattling in distress. No amount of crying, begging or tantrums ever moved Gaster. The only negotiation he would accept were strictly rational arguments delivered in a soft, calm voice, and even that rarely worked. What he expected from Papyrus was utmost obedience, and Papyrus knows he’s already straining the limits of acceptability by pushing the issue when Asgore has already made his refusal clear. “Yes, sir.”

For some reason, Asgore flinches at his meek tone, but swiftly shakes it off. With great care, he takes Papyrus by the shoulder and guides him from the room, nodding graciously to Knight-Knight on the way out. “Now, I know you may not be very hungry, but perhaps you will join me for some tea and cookies? I find they help me feel better when I am struggling with a difficult situation.”

Papyrus doesn’t feel like food, but he numbly allows himself to be herded along, unresisting but without enthusiasm. He wraps his bony arms around his chest, holding himself tightly in a poor substitute for Sans’s absent embrace, trying to ignore the way his soul feels tight and cold inside his chest.

* * *

The private study of the royal family is thick with heavy silence, discouragement hanging over the King and Queen like a cloud of smoke. There’s a wine glass at Toriel’s elbow, drained to its final dregs, while a slice of butterscotch-cinnamon pie sits in front of Asgore with only a single bite missing.

“Papyrus is faring poorly,” he admits, arms folded heavily on the table in front of him. “At times he seems listless, but more often, he is inconsolable. His distress is only growing, the longer we keep Sans from him.”

“Sans has shown no change,” Toriel says, staring despondently into her empty glass. “Even though his body is here with us, his thoughts and feelings are so far out of reach. I cannot...I cannot reach him. I cannot draw him back.”

Her discouragement is as painful to him as a grievous wound. He can see her mind turning to the past, thinking of all the monsters she could not save during the war; so many lives slipping through her fingers, so many souls cracking under the strain of loss and despair. The devastating nature of Sans’s situation has affected her deeply. He reaches across the table to take her hand, if only to draw her back to the present. 

“Are you sure we must keep them apart?” he asks, feeling as helpless as he had the day he’d resigned their kind to the underground -- the necessity of a terrible choice. “They have been together all this time. Surely…?”

Toriel’s eyes are dark, haunted. “I am certain that for Sans’s sake, we must. I have tried to speak of Papyrus to him, but that only makes his soul go dim and distant. It makes him withdraw so deeply into himself I have feared that he might not return.”

“They are too wounded to help each other,” a soft voice calls unexpectedly from the shadows of the corner. Neither monarch flinches, familiar with their Judge’s peculiar habit of appearing from nowhere, and having been expecting their arrival. “Coming together will only ensure mutual destruction, as Gaster intended. They were not meant to live on without him.”

The name of the former scientist makes Toriel’s face twist in a vicious snarl that shows the bright pink of her gums around her fangs. The stem of her wineglass cracks neatly in two, and she aggravatedly sets it aside. “The core was too kind and quick an end for that man.”

“It was,” the Judge agrees solemnly. There’s none of the musicality or whimsy in their voice now, only a level edge, as sharp as an executioner’s blade. “And there are few ways to punish a man already dead.”

‘Few’ ways was not none. Asgore gives them a long stare before steeling himself to ask, “What is your Judgement?”

The Judge sits at their table, dark robes making their shapeless body writhe and swell as they carefully pronounce, “The man who speaks in hands has committed deeds too terrible to be remembered, so he shall be forgotten.”

Asgore and Toriel exchange a wordless, weighted look of uncertainty. Asgore clears his throat. “I don’t understand.”

“He will be erased,” the Judge says, their voice hard, irrefutable. “His life, his deeds and all of his accomplishments. His success and his failures. Great or terrible, his existence will disappear for all but the three of us, who must remember. It is our lesson, and our burden to bear so that others may forget.”

It’s not a Judgement Asgore has ever witnessed before, though in his lifetime he has never been privy to crimes as depraved and sickening as Gaster’s. The Judge is hard, but their punishments have always been fair, intended to allow the perpetrator some means of repairing the damage they caused to others...but Gaster is dead. There is no hope for redemption or reparation, nor even any way to depreciate the sheer amount of harm he’s caused. Asgore has no empathy to spare for the man, but he remembers the bright-eyed scientist who swore he could make the Underground a livable, comfortable prison. Who fervently declared that he would find a way to break the barrier and free them without the need for any sacrifice. Who was beloved by his peers and subordinates as the one who could always solve the problem, who gave them hope and purpose and inspired them to do better. That man, too, will disappear, along with the criminal who abused his own children.

“So his sons...will forget?” Toriel asks hesitantly, her expression as conflicted as Asgore feels. There is no one who understands the bond between parent and child more intimately than she, even when that bond has become distorted, corrupt. Chara still struggles with it, but Asgore would not wish for them to completely forget their human parents. It has made them who they are; a child that he and his Queen love with unconditional affection.

“They must,” the Judge says harshly. “If they are ever to heal from the harm he caused to them. Even now, his influence is poison, killing them slowly. We must remove it before it is too late.”

Rebuked, Toriel lowers her gaze, ears falling forward to obscure her face. “I see. Then it must be so.”

“It must.” The Judge’s body seems to fold in on itself, receding, shrinking. “Justice must be served. The price will be paid.”

“The price?” Asgore repeats. They have no face to betray any emotion, but he imagines he sees them hesitate before they answer him.

“This will be my last Judgement,” they admit. “It will take much of me to complete the sentence. Afterwards, I will be but a shall, no longer able to give counsel. That is what comes from an unmaking such as this.”

Asgore stares at them, a mirror of Toriel’s mute dismay. The Judge has held their position longer than Asgore has been King; an eminent monster, ancient and respected. Their steady presence has guided him through countless catastrophes, through war and ruin, through exile and rebuilding. A protest tangles in his throat, but before he can unravel it the Judge calmly continues:

“I have known for some time this end was coming. Crimes such as Gaster’s would not have escaped my sight if my powers were not already waning. Do not grieve for me. Another Judge shall come to you, when you next have need. As for myself, it has been my great honor to serve with you for all this time.”

They bow to each monarch, the only gesture of genuflection they have ever shown before. It moves Asgore to find his voice, “Are you certain this is what must be done?”

The Judge’s empty face somehow pierces him with the intensity of their gaze. “Wouldn’t you give just as much to see harm Gaster has wrought undone?”

There’s nothing he can say to that. He inclines his own horned head, taking Toriel’s hand for strength and comfort. He deliberately sets aside the first stirrings of grief as the Judge rises from their chair and melds back into the shadows, their body dispersing before vanishing entirely from sight.

* * *

It’s been a long, sleepless night when a frantic knocking rouses Toriel from her reading. She hushes Asgore with a quiet murmur, sending him back into restless slumber, before rising from the bed to answer the door. She’s used to the occasional nighttime visitor, quelling Asriel’s nightmares, or more rarely, Chara’s, but this time she knows it’s not one of her children. The knocking resounded with the clang of metal armour in a brisk rapping that hastens her step.

Knight-Knight is out in the hall, looking profoundly chagrined. “Papyrus...is not in his bed. I cannot find-”

Toriel darts past the guard, already hurrying briskly. Not another word needs to be said. She doesn’t know where Papyrus is, but she knows where he will be heading. She can only hope to reach the infirmary first, to protect Sans from having to confront his former abuser even if it is his sweet young brother. Papyrus does not, can not, understand what his mere presence might do to Sans. He’s already on the verge of falling down, his fragile soul might not endure any further hurt. 

The lights inside the infirmary remain lit to offer Sans their comfort, but as Toriel approaches the door she knows already she’s too late. She can hear Papyrus’s voice, his tone loud and boisterous, chatting amiably, and she can only desperately hope that he’s speaking with the doctor on his midnight rounds.

She bursts in, her bare feet slipping on the smooth tiles. “Papyrus, my child, you should not be here!”

Papyrus starts from where he’s crouched over one of the beds -- the very bed Toriel feared he would be at -- looking guiltily earnest. “Ah! I’m very sorry, Miss Toriel, but I couldn’t sleep and I thought Sans might also be having a had time since he wouldn’t have anyone to tell him a bedtime story. I’m almost done! I promise I’ll go back to bed soon, but I had to take care of Sans, you see.”

“Papyrus, you must not disturb your brother,” she says, more afraid than angry. She hurries over, desperately sensing for the resonance of Sans’s soul, hoping desperately to find it intact. “His health is still dangerously poor, he-”

She stops, blinks. Sans’s eyes are open, and for the first time since she was introduced to him in Papyrus’s room, his eyes are present and focused. He blinks back at her, the movement asymmetrical and sluggish, but there’s undeniable coherence in his gaze. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, like he’s trying to smile, and if her ears were less sharp she would have missed the strained whisper of his voice. “...hi.”

“Oh.” It feels like the world has fallen out from under her, tilting onto a new axis. She falls to her knees at his bedside, looking at the face that has remained frozen and vacant for weeks. “Hello, Sans. You...how are you feeling?”

His face scrunches slightly, the smooth bone crinkling with consternation. It takes him several long moments to gather the strength to speak. “...dunno.”

“Well. That is...entirely reasonable, I think. You have been asleep a long time.”

“A very long time!” Papyrus agrees, hovering nearby, as if he’s being pulled towards Sans by magnetism. “It was very inconsiderate of you, sleepyhead!”

The softness in Sans’s expression is undeniable, full of affection and a kind of contentment Toriel wouldn’t have believed possible for such a traumatised child. “...sorry.”

“I forgive you, of course,” Papyrus concedes gallantly. “The King and Queen tell me you have been very sick, so I will permit you to sleep more if you need it. Should I tell you another story?”

There’s an unexpected hunger on Sans’s face, a craving for his brother’s words, his company, like he’s unused to it. “...please.”

It’s happened already, Toriel realises, sitting back on her heels and watching the two brother’s interact. The shadow of Gaster’s harm is gone from them. Sans’s soul radiates a placid calm instead of cringing from her senses. Papyrus is full of life, eager and cheerful as he launches into the tale of a Fluffy Bunny leaning to play hide and seek. The difference is so sudden, so profound that she feels her eyes grow wet with wonder. Her next inhale shakes with a sniffle, and both skeletons give her a confused look. 

“Are you okay, Miss Toriel?” Papyrus asks, endearingly concerned on her behalf. “I know it sounds like a difficult time for Fluffy Bunny, but I promise it has a happy ending!”

“I’m glad, my child,” she says, wiping her eyes and smiling so wide the corners of her mouth ache with it. The distant grief she feels at the loss of their Judge is overshadowed by the indescribable joy of knowing these two boys will be just fine. “I would like very much to hear it.”


End file.
